


How To Form Full Smiles

by TerresDeBrume



Series: Get Back Up [11]
Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Cerebro, F/M, Friendship, Gen, M/M, Present Tense, Project, School, Xavier Institute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-11
Updated: 2011-07-11
Packaged: 2017-10-21 06:39:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/222046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TerresDeBrume/pseuds/TerresDeBrume
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>“Wait, this is a school?” The would-be photograph looks more like a James Bond cache, overly luxurious and sight-catching, the kind of place that should be forever surrounded by tourists and would-be-spies paparazzi.</i></p><p> </p><p>Or How Erik Lehnsherr Got Talked Into Helping With The Creation Of Xavier's School.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How To Form Full Smiles

“Good morning Alex,” Erik says, clipped, when Havok opens the door to Charles and Raven’s pavilion at ten in the morning with nothing but boxers and a grey t-shirt on. The latter doesn’t even have the courtesy to look sheepish before he leans back inside the room and calls for Charles, apparently finding it very natural to greet another man’s newly appointed boyfriend looking like he just came out of his bed.

 

Still, Charles smiles brightly when he sees Erik, and it is easier than expected to answer with the biggest smile on Erik’s repertoire –which, admittedly, still isn’t much- when he runs a hand through his hair, sticking every which ways, before he scratches at his oh so sexy scruffy cheeks. It’s been a ten days since the Mutant Pride and Erik feels like he still hasn’t come down from the high of it, even if Alex’ appearance acted as an effective substitute for a cold shower. (It is also possible that he hasn’t come down the high of having Charles’ tongue inside his mouth and his arms around his neck, but that’s an entirely different story and Erik isn’t thinking about all the ways it could go wrong right now, thank you.)

He allows himself to be dragged inside by a Charles in uncharacteristic sport pants and t-shirt –that one has the same turquoise green that is coming to be the Mutant equivalent of the Rainbow Flag, with the words _Mutant Pride 2011_ written across the back in dark emerald, black scribbling taking over the cotton where eager participants signed the shirt with cloth markers. For some reason, Aaron Dubois’ neat _Thanks, A.D._ sticks out to Erik’s eyes, and maybe –just maybe- there is potential for more than just Moira to accept Mutants as they _are_ instead of the tame pets people wish they were.

 

“Come here,” Charles urges as he follows Alex to the kitchen part of the main room, “I’ve wanted to show you this for _days_.”

 

‘Days’ in Charles mouth sounds like _ages_ and Erik can’t help but let the telepath guide him to the table, which looks like a post-D-Day Normandy beach, what with all the blueprints and sticky-notes and discarded books and quotes and pictures and sketches. Alex looks about twenty years younger than he really is and practically bounces in his seat as he looks at the cheery mess with the eye of someone who understands only the general principle of it but is still very happy with what he sees.

Both he and Charles have stars in their eyes and red on their cheeks, hair ruffled and clothes sweat-stuck to their chests, the buzz of Charles’ enthusiasm filling the room, delightful in the way it makes the telepath look like he is ten again, the way it makes Erik’s skin sing with giddiness.

 

“Remember what we talked about the other day? About how most of us can’t even get to know how to control their powers?” Erik nods, because this is one of those things that make him so angry at the world all the time, one of the things even Charles couldn’t make him forget about if he tried… not without using his power at any rate. “Well, Alex and I talked about it, and we thought it was high time we put our biggest project to execution… so we got together with Hank and we managed to come up with this.”

 

Charles gestures to the cluttered table and Erik’s gaze skips over it, taking in drafts for a Rules Chart, various drawings surrounded by three different sets of handwritings, the occasional smiley figure sprouting between the lines. There are prints of virtual simulations of a vast building in an ancient style not unlike that of the stables and former barn sitting not too far from Charles’ home. The telepath hands Erik one of those prints and goes on to silently conversing with Alex, pointing at the blueprints for a room labeled Cerebro which is apparently already built in the former atomic bunker Charles’ father had made under the Mansion. There is a sketch of a training room with various instruments sitting between them, and if their expressions are anything to go by, they’re pondering the risks and peculiar settings of the two features.

Erik stares at the picture a little longer before Alex takes him out of his meditation with a smile:

 

“The idea,” he explains, “is to have twenty –twenty-five students come around at first. Then, when they’re older, we’d keep some of them to teach the next generation.”

“Wait, this is a _school_?” The would-be photograph looks more like a James Bond cache, overly luxurious and sight-catching, the kind of place that should be forever surrounded by tourists and would-be-spies paparazzi.

“Poe is one of my favorite writers,” Charles says as though it explains everything, and Erik has to ask again:

“You intend to have kids studying and living in _this_?”

“Yes,” Charles says with a satisfied smile, “although we are a little short on staff right now. Alex is going to teach sports, I’ll take over literature and philosophy of course, Sean is getting his agreement for music and we’ll probably split dorm keeping duties between the lot of us at first. We are one mister fix-it slash mechanics teacher short.”

“What about sciences, history, geography, mathematics, foreign languages?” Erik says, because he’s got the distinct impression Charles and Alex are trying to talk him into a crazy project and he’s not sure he’s comfortable with the level of ease between them –he’s seen Charles around others and though he’s generally easy going, only Alex can make him act like that, like he _actually_ feels _safe._

 

It was unnerving at best before, but with the recent events between Charles and himself, Erik finds it irritating beyond belief.

 

“Hank can teach sciences and mathematics,” Alex and Charles answer in unison, “Charles is trying to convince Moira to come and get self-defense, though it looks like Darwin will have to take that, at least at first. We’re still looking for the rest.”

“As for foreign languages,” Charles adds, “we’ll be able to make-do for the beginnings: I’m fluent in French and Latin, Darwin’s half Spanish, and you could cover German till we find a proper teacher… that is, if you agree with joining us in that new adventure of ours.”

 

Erik restrains a sigh, feeling egoistic in the face of such an enthusiasm in Charles.

He’s surprised that it is so hard for him to reason properly where the telepath is concerned: he met Alex four years before he even started working, and they spent that time fighting like madmen to make their dream concept of Mutant Pride come to life, of course they’re going to be close. They do seem to have the same goal-oriented mind, after all, and coming from a man like Erik whose only reason to be alive is a promise made on his mother’s metaphorical deathbed, that is saying something.

 

“How long have you been thinking about this exactly?” Erik asks, because there’s no way he can tell them everything on his mind, even if Charles could find out anytime, and there’s no way they’ve thought about that much in barely more than a week either.

“Two years, on and off,” Alex answers, and Erik raises an eyebrow. _Again_ , he discovers a crusade Charles threw himself in long before they met, and though he is pleased the telepath tries to include him in it, he surprises himself –a lot- by wishing maybe they could start a project of their own, someday.

 

 _One day we will,_ Charles says in Erik’s mind, and it sounds like certitude, a calm stating of facts rather than a promise, and Erik finds it reassuring, even with the implied ‘not yet’ lacing Charles’ sentence.

 

“We started discussing the possibility more seriously two months ago, when Charles and Hank got positive results with the Cerebro.”

“Okay,” Raven says as she comes out of her bedroom, flaming hair looking like she blew a bomb in it, giant blue fur ball in tow. “Could someone _please_ tell me what this Cerebro is? I’ve had to listen to Charles and Hank go on about it for _years_ and I still have no clue!”

“Well of course I’ll tell you,” Charles assures with a smile, “as soon as you’ve explained how Hank woke up in your room when I left him to sleep on the sofa last night.”

 

Both Raven and Hank both let out undignified squeals, before Raven has the good sense to dive into the bathroom without further ado. Stuck in the main room, Hank gives a tentative, sheepish smile, one side of his fur sticking to his body while the other looks even wilder than usual, the kind of look you’d expect on someone who used a mini-bomb to style their air in the morning. Hank doesn’t spare too much time to panic, though, and walks half-blindly to the table in the middle of the room in an impressive display of morning foggyness. He plops down next to Erik on the chair facing Alex’s and his left foot reaches blindly for a banana on the countertop –and Erik is definitely _not_ thinking about blue gorillas- while his hands manipulate a set of blueprints with practiced care.

 

“The Cerebro,” he starts in a low growl while his feet peel his banana, “is a device conceived to allow Charles to reach further than he normally would be able to. A psychic amplifier of sorts, if you will.”

“My normal range is around 250 miles,” Charles says calmly as Erik tries not to choke on his own saliva, “and I can expand to around 300-350 without too much effort, but my latest attempts to reach further than this were… unsuccessful.”

“He fainted and bled from every orifice in his head for the next five hours,” Alex clarifies, “we had to forbid him to try again.”

“I told you, I think it extended since last time,” Charles answers with a roll of his eyes –and isn’t it just Charles to dismiss his own health if it means working for science or Mutants’ safety, uh?- “Anyways,” Charles says, “the point is, with Cerebro, I can cover about half the globe easily, and I _know_ I can get to reach further with enough training. We want to use it to find others like us, Mutants whose powers might be dangerous to their entourage or themselves, or both, and bring them to the school.”

“For obvious reasons,” Alex continues, and Erik forcibly reminds himself that acting like Charles’ twin is _not_ a valid reason to try and mind-torture someone –eye shooting is fine, though- “the Cerebro must remain a secret. That’s why Raven doesn’t know what it is, she still hasn’t learnt how to properly keep a secret.”

“But you three have.”

“You’d be surprised,” Charles answers grimly, just as Alex grins:

“Well Big Foot is slightly hopeless at it, but nobody listens to him so it’s o—aouch! Charles, that _hurts_!” he exclaims, clutching at the back of his head.

“We both know Hank won’t do it for himself. And anyways,” Charles says when dread and suspicion start rolling off Erik like sluggish fuel, “we know the machine is to be destroyed when I die.”

“ _If_ your successor is willing to do it,” Erik cautions, almost angry that a thing like Cerebro, that has the potential to cause _so much harm_ exists and will exist beyond Charles, beyond the only man he thinks can be trusted with it….

“We’re not that naïve,” Hank retorts, feral, as Raven slides out of the bathroom and carefully avoids attracting Charles attention to herself, “there are securities.” He reaches out to grab another blueprint from the table drawer and hands it out to Erik: “The blueprints for the machine are to be kept at the heart of it with DNA locks programmed to let Charles, Alex and I in, but nobody else. As for the machine itself, I’m working on a way to connect it to Charles’ psychic waves: if he doesn’t use the machine at least once a week, the main processors and the blueprints will autodestruct. I’ll know how to repair it if it’s an accident, but nobody else will. We’re testing the alarm next week.”

“It’s not perfect,” Alex admits, “nothing ever is, but Cerebro could be our biggest asset in the next few years, and Hank’s plans are a lot better than just sit there and hope kids that’ll come behind us will be reasonable about it.”

 

Erik nods, still wary but convinced the three men in front of him did everything that was humanly possible to protect their machine from unscrupulous users, even if Alex and Hank trusting him that readily with the secret of the Carebro is both disconcerting and disappointing in its naiveté: just because he is a Mutant doesn’t mean he can’t do them harm.

 

“Charles trusts you,” Alex says as though _he_ were the telepath. “That’s enough for me.”

 

Hank nods, and Erik is once again amazed by the level of trust and love Charles manages to gather from people around him. Erik knows he could charm people into following him if he wanted, knows he could terrify them, but he also knows that he could never manage a team like Charles as on his own. Were he to form his own group of Mutants, he would have to rule it with the iron fist of fear and power to keep it obedient to his will, and his followers would probably never fully trust each others. Charles has managed to form a net of _friends_ as much as associates, and Erik surprises himself by _wanting_ in.

 _Oh, but you_ are _in, my friend,_ Charles smiles in his mind, and Erik forces a frown at the intrusion, even though it doesn’t bother him half as much as it probably should.

 

“So,” he says instead of letting himself be dragged into a battle of wits with Charles, because this is the kind of fight that can go on forever, “you have obviously thought about the location, the teaching and the recruiting parts… but how exactly are you going to _finance_ the thing? I know you Charles, you wouldn’t go against the law, and Mutants aren’t allowed to create private schools.”

“That’s where Alex’s idea comes in handy,” Charles answers cheerfully. “We won’t go against the law, we are going to _contour_ it.”

“It’s actually Darwin who gave me the idea at the Parade,” Alex explains, slightly smug, “when he told a girl just because he doesn’t look like a Mutant doesn’t make him any less of one. It struck me and I kept it in mind for a while and then, when we started discussing the problem of financing our project, it thought ‘hey, why not make a school that wouldn’t look like a school?’”

“So you want to put the school under some sort of cover.”

“We’ll make it pass for a hotel!” Charles exclaims giddily, bouncing in his seat, smile utterly adorable under his newly forming beard. “Isn’t it _brilliant_?”

“There’s plenty of Mutant-Only hotels around the world,” Alex joins in, smile wide and eyes sparkling, “we can open the school as one. The older students can come here and stay with working visas –Charles is currently acquiring a few businesses in the area to provide jobs for them- and follow their general courses via mail, with only the Mutant specific classes taken on ground. As for the younger ones, we can get them family gathering visas, and send them to local schools.”

“With people like Kelly as headmasters?” Erik snorts in disbelief.

“Oh no, not quite,” Charles smiles, “Kelly is resigning as soon as we’re ready to start our business. The new principal is a friend to our cause.”

“And you know that how?”

“Her name is Emma Frost, she’s Azazel’s godmother _and_ an unregistered telepath. Between the two of us, having her come to the country and be nominated at Washington will be a piece of cake.”

“Willing to use our power to have our way, I see, Charles,” Erik smirks, and almost isn’t surprised when Charles answers with dead seriousness:

“Anything to protect those who need it. Besides,” he adds with a shrug, “Kelly will think retiring is _his_ decision so, see? Nor real harm done.”

 

Erik isn’t exactly sure where this unashamed Charles comes from, however temporary that state must be, but he’s willing to roll with that an doesn’t question him further than necessary. There _is_ however, a question that still needs an answer, and Erik voices it:

 

“What about kids who can’t _afford_ to come?”

“Charity trust,” a voice answers from Charles bedroom, and has the world decided to just _meet there_ or what?

 

The man who spoke is blonde, impeccably coiffed, semi-casual costume flawless on his straight silhouette and irreproachable pose, eyes full of the confident arrogance and superiority only those who are born wealthy can muster. Well, most of them anyways, Erik amends, because for all that Charles has his arrogant side, he never appeared quite as full of himself as that man does, which is a good thing or Erik would have punched him at their first meeting, Mutant or no.

 

“I was exposing to Charles and your others friends the benefit of such a solution,” the man goes on, “it would be easy to create a fund aiming to provide young Mutants with an opportunity to go on holidays, and with my name and reputation, bringing you some wealthy patrons would be an easy feat.”

“And you are?” Erik asks defensively.

“Lord Brett Sinclair the seventh,” Raven answers as she comes out of her bedroom. “He is and old… ah, _acquaintance_ of the family’s.”

“Yes, yes,” Sinclair approves, “Charles and I have known each other since childhood, even though we weren’t always on the friendliest of terms.”

 

Raven snorts at that, disbelieving, and Erik doesn’t need telepathy to know Sinclair is as fond of euphemisms as Charles is. Apparently, the trait runs in the higher circles of society.

 

 _Oh, you have no idea,_ Charles thinks at him without the cheer Erik would have expected.

 

“Now, obviously,” Sinclair continues, “we can’t use my name for this: creating such a fund would be my demise, and then how would I convince my peers to finance you? No, the best way to go about that is for me to create that fund in one of your stead, preferably someone whose name is little known, like yours, mister Lehnsherr, and then try and talk my friends into helping you.”

 

 _Did you brainwash him?_ Erik thinks at Charles, flabbergasted.

 _Oh, Erik, you underestimate me. As if I needed my power to talk Brett into doing what I want him to._

 _Easy enough for me, piece of cake for Charles,_ Raven adds, making Erik realize the mental conversation is going on all around the table, with the notable exception of one Lord Brett Sinclair the Seventh.

 _Your talents for manipulation astound me,_ Hank thinks, admiring, even as he nods absently at Sinclair, who launched into a rant about how generous and amazing of him it is to help such an underestimated cause like Mutant rights with just enough enthusiasm that Erik _knows_ he made the idea his own, but not for the right reason.

 _He sees political advantage in the years to come, potential partnership and privileged market shares,_ Charles mentally scoffs, _I see safety, acceptance and freedom for dozens more kids._

 _And the best part of it,_ Raven adds gleefully, _is that the poor sod hasn’t even realized he’s not going to benefit from any of this since he refuses to have his name associated to it._

 _I can’t believe this guy managed to keep his fortune about him_ , Alex says, _he’s so stupid._

 _Oh, he is not,_ Charles corrects. _He’s far from being the best man you can meet, but he’s not stupid. No, his real problem is his ego. Though with the amount of hair product he wears for an informal visit, I’m sure you’ve all guessed that._

 

Raven lets a laugh escape her and covers he mouth with her hands to try and cover her amused snorts. The four other mutants exchange mirthful looks, smiling at their private exchange but on the whole managing to keep some sort of countenance, up until Raven shoots a look at Sinclair’s dumbfound face and dissolves into hysteric, quickly followed by Alex, Charles, Hank and then Erik himself, until Charles tips too far back in his chair and falls to the ground, taking Alex with him and causing everyone to crack up again.

They laugh and laugh and laugh for several more minute, roaring with a mingle of nerves and amusement at Sinclair’s face which is a testimony of how much he can never understand them, can never understand what it is to be a Mutant and have lived all your life forced to answer to the government monthly check-up calls, what it is to have believed you could never expect anything better and then suddenly be offered the promise of kids like you learning and growing, kids being safe and free and accepted and _loved._

No matter how hard he tries –if he ever does- Lord Brett Sinclair the Seventh can never know how it feels to finally begin to think there might be a way to end all the little persecutions perpetrated against you and those of your kind; he, with his white face and blonde hair and expansive clothing can never know what it is to be a Mutant faced with the constant possibility of fear and misery and loneliness and rejection and then finally be offered a place where all this will be kept at bay.

 

He doesn’t know what it is to be offered a future, and it shows on the exasperated frown he shoots toward the five Mutants before he storms out of the room muttering something about irresponsibility.

 

Erik doesn’t regret that he is gone, doesn’t even spare time to worry he’s going to bail out of this because he _knows_ with absolute certitude Charles simply won’t _let_ him call the thing off, not when it means so much to them, to their people.

 

“Okay,” he says when he’s finally managed to get his breathing back to normal and brush mirthful tears off his cheeks. “bring on the crazy, I’m in.”

 

Charles beams and Erik discovers how to form a full-on smile.

**Author's Note:**

> Charles’ mention of Poe refers to his short story _The Purloined Letter_ in which a letter of high importance is being ‘hidden’ in plain view of everyone, because nobody would think of something so easily visible as anything important/precious/hidden.


End file.
